


You're On My Mind

by imaginary_iby



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Romance, slowly dealing with grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:17:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_iby/pseuds/imaginary_iby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chin feels the loss of Malia most keenly in the early hours of the morning, when he's all alone and the house is painfully quiet.  Comfort and company comes from a surprising source, and in a most peculiar manner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're On My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Chin is a mystery to me, I confess. For all that I love him, I can't quite get a grasp on his character. I think that this is probably too fluffy to be even remotely realistic, but it's what my brain came up with at 2.30AM. Very hastily written, apologies.

The thing about losing someone you love, is that your life goes on. The bills still need paying, criminals don't stop breaking the law. You still have to shower, and buy shampoo; you still have to cook dinner and wash the broccoli and put gas in the car.

But it's _hard._ It's so hard, as to be beyond belief, beyond description. So even though Chin knows that he'll survive Malia's death in the _long run_ , it doesn't always feel like it in the _moment._ His Ohana is there for him, protecting him on the job and subtly taking care of him in their off hours - even if it's just the simple little things like taking him for beers after work and getting him out of his head for a spell. 

In the end, though, he's not the sort to ask for help. Despite the fact that he loves his family, (and knows that they love him in return) there's a part of him that's just so damned _grateful_ to be a restored cop that he can't bear the thought of becoming a burden.

They say things like, _call me any time, day or night, whenever you need._ And they're sincere. He knows that they're sincere. He knows that he could call them, and they'd pick up and talk to him, or come right over and keep him company. But he just can't do it.

And so he finds himself wandering from room to room one morning, the sun still hours away and the streets quiet. He's still getting acquainted with the new place, his old house with Malia too painful to live in on his own. He strolls the corridors, mentally mapping the doorways and steps, lest he receive more unwanted guests in the middle of the night.

He ends up in the kitchen, perched before the sink and planning on a glass of water to soothe his dry throat. He fumbles blindly for the tap, working it on with a squeak, then reaches for a glass from the cabinet to the left. With only a faint light emanating from the hallway, he almost misses it: a dark square of paper, taped to the wood of the cabinet door. Gently, he pries it off, the soft stickiness of a post-it note tearing away with a quiet whoosh.

Perplexed, he momentarily abandons his plans for a drink, stepping out into the light to read the note. It's Danny's handwriting, little more than a capitalized chicken scratch, but he can read it as well as he can read his own.

_No, babe, the glasses are in the cabinet on the right._

For a second, he's confused. And then he remembers that, yes, the glasses are indeed on the _right_ , in this house.

It's just a simple little thing, really, nothing more than a friendly reminder. But for a second, stood still in the dark of his desperately quiet house, he doesn't feel quite so alone.

\-----

It's not until he flicks the bathroom light on that he remembers he's forgotten to buy toiler paper. The prosaic things keep slipping him by: he tends to wander the supermarket rather dazedly, these days. 

Even though Malia was as busy as he was - perhaps even busier - they always tried to go grocery shopping together. They'd stop for shave ice at the park on the way home, and every now and then Malia would sneak on the swings for a quick twirl.

He stands in the bathroom doorway, lost in thought, picturing her giggling and kicking her feet out. Alas, the immediate needs of his body bring him back to the present - he shakes his head, wrapping the memory up carefully and placing it aside. There's a 24/7 convenience store down the street, and it is with a groan that he accepts that he's going to have to go out in the middle of the night. 

It is only as he turns to leave the bathroom, hand reaching for the switch, that he notices the basket by the toilet. It's stocked full, a still-wrapped ten-pack of toilet paper sitting in it, with a post-it note resting innocently on top.

Fighting back a smile, he pads forward on the cold tiles, leaning over to peel off the note. _You'd forget your head if it wasn't screwed on._

\-----

One of the more depressing consequences of living alone, is the situation with the dishes. For as long as he can remember, doing the washing-up has been a chore - but now, in a funny sort of way, he rather misses it. 

One glass. One plate. One bowl. It's never worth running the machine, but hand-washing for one tends to leave him feeling rather glum.

With a yawn, he ambles over to the sink, cutlery in hand. He's about to turn the tap on when he finds a note taped over the drain. _No. We're living dangerously today. Look left._

He looks left, not surprised to find a second note tacked over the control pad of the dishwasher. A pencilled face is smiling up at him. Written next to it, in Danny's familiar scrawl, is: _it'll be our little secret._

\-----

As the months pass, he finds more and more post-its. The team is over once or twice a week, hustling and bustling around the house and keeping him busy, but he never particularly notices Danny sneaking off. And yet, without fail, every room ends up covered in comments. 

Some of them are deeply personal: a dark red note tucked into his photo album, resting reverently over a picture from his wedding day: _we won't ever forget her, babe. You're not alone._

Some of them are about boring day to day stuff, one taped to the fruit bowl: _Gracie's pestering me to eat an apple a day, so if I have to, YOU have to as well._

Some of them make him laugh, little notes slipped inside CD cases, just waiting patiently to be opened: _you have terrible taste, what even is this you goof, come see me when you want to start listening to some real music._

Some are reminders, prompting him to do the day to day things that sometimes slip him by - or even letting him know that something has already been taken care of. One day he finds a pink post-it note tucked beneath his car’s windscreen-wipers: _annual service has been booked for February 15th, please drop vehicle off at 7.30AM. Camaro chauffeur available, upon payment of cocoa puffs._

Eventually, the notes spill over into everyday life. They begin to make plans based on snippets of scribbled ideas, Danny grabbing him by the shirt one evening and dragging him off to the record store. _”Yes, Chin, the ~record store, I am not one for these new-fangled DVD-USB-iMAC-ATM whatchamallit players. Life is about the finer things, the gentle scratch of the needle, the slow turn of the disc.”_

_“You just threw together as many acronyms as you could think of, right?”_

_“That is not the point. Now, let me introduce you to Jon Bon Jovi. No, no, no, do not look at me like that, this is your musical education and it’s starting right now.”_

Chin, at first somewhat hesitantly, starts writing notes back, taping them over Danny’s so that he won’t miss them. _Please stop reminding me to eat apples, I eat enough fruit as it is. I caught that suspect yesterday whilst you were still getting out of the car, old man. Do I seriously seem unfit?_

Danny’s reply both surprises and pleases him. _Fuck no, babe. I have eyes, I can see how fit you are._

He stands in his kitchen for longer than he cares to admit, thumb absently smoothing over the post-it as the cogs in his mind begin to turn.

After that, things change a little, take on a certain spice that had been lacking from their earlier chicken-scratch conversations. Neither of them are even remotely shy, but he suspects Danny is a little world weary; he knows that his own heart will always carry a bruise. 

It had begun with a kind-hearted attempt to keep him company, to cheer him up in the early hours when he was alone. But somehow, it has turned into something more; into private little chuckles at work, recalling something funny that one of them mentioned on a note stuck to the fuse box – he can’t even remember who it was, they’ve got so many conversations going.

It comes to a head when he catches Danny breaking in one evening – they’ve been squabbling over how best to silently gain entry into a house, for work. Danny argues that he wasn’t even _trying_ to break in, that Chin left the side door unlocked. He protests indignantly, even as he surreptitiously tries to straighten the porcelain lamp that he’d nearly sent flying only a few minutes prior.

Before Chin knows what he’s doing, he’s kissing Danny, hands fisted in his crazy mainlander hair, tugging him up until he’s on the tips of his crazy mainlander shoes. He’s just so genuinely happy to see Danny, to have him sneaking around the house like he belongs there, an incriminating packet of post-it notes tucked into his jeans pocket.

“That lamp is new,” Danny grumbles petulantly against his lips. “That lamp was _not_ there yesterday when we were all over for lunch. That _lamp,_ ” he utters the word like a curse. “Was a deliberate attempt to catch me up. I am onto you, Chin Ho Kelly. Oh, you think you’re so clever, but I am onto you like moss on a rock.”

After that, the post-it notes slowly die away, become a memory. A beloved memory, but a memory nonetheless. There’s no need for Danny to leave little communiqués around the house when he can just roll over in bed: “yes, you forgot to buy milk. Yes, I bought milk. You’d forget your head if it wasn’t screwed on.”

\-----

Life rolls on, and they start to go grocery shopping side by side. He’s no longer dazed as he walks the aisles; he remembers to buy the toilet paper; the dishwasher fills up comfortingly fast; he can’t even begrudge doing the dishes, not when there are _two_ bowls, _two_ plates, _two_ glasses clinking together comfortingly in the sink.

He makes his decision as he’s sitting at the kitchen table one morning. The sound of the shower running is companionable, Danny soaping and sudsing with his usual vigor. They’ve got a long day at work ahead, and then Danny will be returning to his own home that night, having things that need attending to. 

“Danny!” he calls out, scooping up his keys and his wallet. “I’ve got some errands to run, see you at work, okay?”

He pauses to make out Danny’s shout of agreement over the rush of the shower, before rifling through the cutlery drawer, plucking up the abandoned pad of post-it notes.

The drive to Danny’s apartment is swift, a long-ago remembered route of side-streets seeing him make good time. He reaches the door, peels off a purple note from the pad, and presses it firmly to the solid wood. Uncapping the pen he’d stashed in his shirt pocket, he begins to write.

_Move in with me?_

\-----

Work, of course, goes pear shaped. The team ends up scattered across the island, zig-zagging as the case drags them from one place to the next. The note isn’t entirely forgotten, but the responsibilities of the job see it pushed to the back of his mind.

He finally, _finally_ stumbles up the front path the next morning, weary and looking forward to falling into bed. Between the soft light and the way he’s rubbing his hands over his face, he almost misses it: a deep red note taped to the front door.

Danny’s chicken-scratch, familiar and comforting and beloved.

_Thought you’d never ask._


End file.
